In Vayne Glory
by Spikey44
Summary: History is choice; the choices we make and those we don't. Between the what if's and the could have been's lies a thousand untold stories. This is but one of them. A tale of princes, lost kingdoms and twisted fate. A dark retelling of the fall of Dalmasca
1. Chapter 1

**In Vayne Glory**

_Disclaimer: All Characters, locations etc. property of Square Enix. I'm just messing with them for my own twisted amusement. _

_A/N: This is an AU story wherein I intend to corrupt, subvert and otherwise run roughshod over game canon – just a warning. If you have read any of my other Final Fantasy XII stories before some of the non-game characters will be familiar to you, as I am recycling my OC's. This story will also feature Vayne as a central protagonist (though this is an ensemble story) and it could end up being pretty dark. Heroes need not apply; villains all the way baby!_

**Prologue 694 O.V: Solidor; Ever Solidor**

It began in blood; that is what the scribes and the bards and the peddlers of senatorial propaganda would pen as they made slander their daily bread and sought to tear down their betters while currying favour with those equally weak and ineffectual. Vayne knew this. Clenching a fist tight to his lips he was assaulted by the offal stench of blood and thicker things. His brother's blood slipped like silvered mercury from between his whitening fingers. He could not hold on and his elder brother slipped away; away into death.

'Why Tibor?' The question was rhetorical, the wreck of a man lying at his feet could no more answer him now as could carrion rotting in the gutters of Old Archades. Carrion; interesting that House Solidor's second son should be reduced so quickly to nothing more than a red ruin. One might start to think he was nothing more than a man, no better than those whose blood he had shed for his ambitions.

The carpet was saturated, blood oozed from the exotic Nabradian weave as Vayne lowered himself down beside the carcass. Red hands ghosted over the body, but he dared not touch. Strange that the broken shell of his brother should command his deference, his reticence, when the living body had not. Vayne laughed and distantly heard the thunder of booted feet approach. Across the room the shattered crystal lamp cast distorted, knife-toothed shadows over a wall flecked with blood. Meditatively Vayne flexed the fingers of both hands. The door to the boudoir burst open. Vayne heard panting breaths constrained by a heavy metal helm. He heard silence where honour refused to allow a gasp from the man in the doorway. He smiled, feeling the mask of blood stinging his cheeks crack in a thousand fissures over his flesh.

'These hands,' he murmured not looking up, not looking away from the bloodied fists pressed against his knees, 'These hands have done murder, Bergen. These hands of mine have rendered my brother naught but a stain upon our family's history.'

'L – Lord Vayne?' Ah and there is hesitance in the obsequy; nay not hesitance – fear. The Judge's boots make an interesting noise as they pass over the blood drenched carpet. There will be no saving the rug, Vayne thought blandly. This blood spilled will ne'er be washed clean. Slowly he stands, knowing that he is a frightful sight, blood all over and blue eyes blazing with the maddening calm of one who is beyond so many things now.

'Judge Bergen, tell my father his traitor has been dealt with.' There is no quaver in his voice, no hesitance. He extends his one hand, knuckles popped and swollen, still quilted in his brother's blood. 'Here is Torlin's signet ring, found amid Tibor's belongings; evidence of my brother's complicity in the murder of my other brother.' Dropping the signet ring into a metal clad palm Vayne noted the slick gleam of burnished silver winking in the light from under the fresh gilding of blood. So much blood from one small and cowardly man; it had pumped freely for so very long after Tibor had stopped twitching. His brother, the senate's willing puppet, had bled out like a pig. Just like a filthy pig in his slops. He had squealed like one too; squealed as Vayne's fists had rained down upon him.

'My lord – the senate….' Bergen is his man, Vayne knows this, the Judge's House is not so well situated that he can think to play the son of the Emperor against the scions of the Senate, yet even Bergen, brutish lout that he is, senses the magnitude of these events. The lowest hound can scent the hunters on the wind.

'Will make no hue or cry,' Vayne smiled thinly and his boots made scarce a sound gliding over a patina of broken glass, shattered crockery, and drying blood as he retrieved the sheathe of papers from the vanity. 'Did you think Tibor worked alone? The vultures of the senate were swift enough to sniff out the weakness in Torlin, and the avarice in Tibor, but they are too enamoured of their own skin to make good on the promise of their failed treachery.'

There is blood on the papers; Tibor's and his own, such a potent combination. It is a fitting thing. Solidor blood to cast macabre legitimacy upon Senatorial conspiracy; Father will be pleased. His enemies cowed while Gramis' hands are left shockingly clean. To think all such machinations have cost him are his sons; a small price to pay for the throne.

_And these hands will bare the scars ever more; red and broken. _

'My lord,' Bergen steps over the corpse cooling on the floor, 'the Emperor, he has lost two sons' already. It is……a difficult grief to overcome.'

Vayne smiled, sentiment is not Bergen's strength, and this sentiment is so very misplaced. There will be no grief in a gambit well played. Above the mantle the serpents of House Solidor writhe in sinuous rapture; tangled in deceit. The motto prosaic in its simplicity: _Solidor; ever Solidor. _In a room that smells of blood and piss Vayne Solidor laughs.

'Yes, our honoured Emperor has bred dogs of war and allowed us to go feral.' Vayne flexes his hands, these hands that have murdered and will murder again. _Solidor; ever Solidor._ 'Is it not fitting that my brothers should turn upon the hand that fed them, one and then the other?' He asks mildly, knowing the question is a careful lie and the answer far more complex. It is not the hounds who revolted but the master. There is a babe in the cradle, a new son, fresh and untainted by serpent's poison. Mother died in his production and he is to their never satisfied father what Vayne and his brothers' fallen could never aspire to be: hope.

_Larsa, little brother, you know not what has been wrought in your name. I would pray you never do but there is no god to which I may beseech. _

There has been much death within the serpent nest this year. First Torlin, eldest and most favoured of their late mother, but never strong enough for rule; Vayne does not know if his bookish elder brother truly sought that greatest of vices, that most foul poison of Archadian diplomacy, peace with the enemy. In truth it does not matter. Torlin was never destined to live within, let alone command, the Empire. Then Tibor, ambitious but a fool; Tibor had ever been indolent, where Vayne had worked even before attaining his majority, towards ingratiating himself with the army, Tibor left it too late, and had to go begging to the senate for his political legitimacy. Alas poor Tibor, his death became inevitability when he agreed to work as the senate's puppet against their father.

But what of Vayne? Barely a man, just scarce fifteen and already a fratricide; their father has left perhaps the cruellest fate open for his third son. _Solidor; ever Solidor. _Hope must not be so despoiled with blood as Vayne himself. Yet without despair how can there be hope?

_Ah lord father, you are a cruel master indeed to those whose blood is owing to you. I am undone before I am yet begun; all for the babe in the cradle. _

Vayne's fingers grow tight and itchy as the blood begins to dry, staining indelibly into pale Solidor flesh. The papers tremble in hands that did not falter then, when his brother fell broken at his feet, but which tremble now. Like Tibor those papers fall to the vanity in a whispered tumble. Lies of convenience conveyed in parchment; politics etched in blood. Vayne finds he is trapped in his own reflection within the vanity mirror. He is the raven come to feed amid the spoils; he is the serpent whose blood runs colder than death. He is the fratricide who beat his own brother to death with his bare hands. He is his father's hound and his father's fool. He is the blade of Solidor made flesh.

He is Vayne - and this is his glory.

Blood is only the beginning.


	2. Act One: War And Her Agents

**Act One 704 O.V: War and Her Agents**

_The Crown Fortress Nabudis:_

The herald blew a quick piping upon the trumpet and the large agate double doors at the back of the audience chamber swung open upon King Loras' signal. Shifting upon his throne the king of Nabradia managed to keep all expression from his countenance, watching the new comer enter his presence with a keen eye hidden behind years of courtly indifference. To his right and one step down upon the throne dais his seneschal Aelan cleared his throat and made the necessary introductions.

'Your Highness king Loras, may I present his grace the archduke of Srenia province, Al-Cid Margrace, sixth son of the Emperor Saliq and Empress Amira of Rozzaria.'

Traversing the length of the audience chamber swiftly the rangy agile dark haired man in the outlandish attire swept forward onto one knee and, with no little theatrics, offered up a lilting bow, batting aside the folds of a scarlet velvet half cloak as he did so. To Loras' bemusement the man appeared to be wearing dark glasses indoors.

'Your majesty, it is an honour, no? I thank you for dis audience.'

It was impossible to see most of the swarthy man's expression due to his glasses, which may well explain why he wore them in the first place, but still Loras could not fault the man's overt show of deference. He himself was acutely aware that Srenia province in north-eastern Rozzaria was at least equal in size to the kingdom of Nabradia and, much to Loras' regret, considerably wealthier. It sickened Loras to know that even a disregarded sixth son of a damned rag-headed Rozzarian upstart dictator could preside over land that was fertile, rich in natural resources, and gifted with vast beauty, when he, scion of the great Galtean family Nabradia, kin to Raithwall, was forced to sit by powerless as his kingdom dwindled in significance and was slowly devoured by the damnable desert sands.

Refusing to allow any such thoughts to interfere with this necessary bit of state theatre he made the gesture to proceed, 'Rise your grace and welcome to Nabradia.' Loras, no longer a young man, watched with another pinch of envy as the young fop leapt easily to his feet with an equally easy and insincere smile.

'My thanks to you again your majesty,' the young man made a show of looking around him, taking in the tourmaline and aquamarine studied mosaic walls of the Nabudis throne room, the expansive hanging tapestries decorated with the glories of the long past and the other slowly moulding trappings of a wealth and history increasingly becoming more millstone around Loras' neck than it was an ostentatious sign of status. 'Forgive me, majesty, dese words you have heard before, I doubt not – but dis,' the fop threw out an arm, long hanging sleeve yellow as the desert sand billowing with the gesture, 'dis is magnificent! I had heard of de beauty of Nabudis but to see it……' he shook his head feigning an impressive amount of faux awe.

Abruptly annoyed and tired of this façade Loras waved his hand dismissively, 'You did not come here your grace simply to flatter me. What is it that you wish to discuss?'

If the greasy Rozzarian bastard was in any way put out by Loras' lack of decorum he did not show it. 'Ah, yes; business. It is good that you are of a mind to discuss de – how you say? – meat of de issue.' Swiping a dark tanned hand through the mop of glossy black hair covering his head it looked for a moment like the duke might remove his glasses, but he refrained. 'I come to speak of war your majesty,' the man said quite casually before turning his face directly up to Loras with a faint smile, 'and how you and I might avoid it, no?'

******

_Archadian territorial airspace; Balfonheim – Ridorana border:_

The purvama Drako was nothing more than a speck of greenery slathered rock drifting in loose orbit out toward the Ridorana jagd; thankfully for the sake of this incursion Drako had drifted out of jagd far enough to make reaching it via airship risky, but possible. And what was life without a bit of risk, hmm?

'We're picking up at least seven vessels on radar, sir.' Pilot Syln almost gave himself concussion his salute was so very, very sharp. Eyeing the man with mild amusement Judge Bunansa continued to cup his chin in the cradle of one hand, seemingly completely unperturbed by this news.

'Only seven? Pity,' Shifting in his flight leathers Judge Bunansa sat up in the captain's chair trying to shake himself out his lethargy. There were appearances to be maintained after all. No doubt he'd feel mildly guilty if these poor buggers under his command went and got themselves killed simply because their commander couldn't muster the energy to treat the situation with the gravity it deserved. Sodding pirates, he was getting beyond sick of dealing with their ilk. Casting an ironic glance over each member of his squad aboard the Imperial Stealth Cruiser Sylph Ffamran Bunansa, youngest serving Judge and arguably the Empire's greatest ever pilot rose to his full height to address his handpicked squad, 'Right then you lot. Let's get to it, shall we?'

There were grins all around and a number of sardonic, but still enthusiastic 'aye-aye commander's' thrown in merely because the squad knew how much their slightly idiosyncratic commander hated titles, and then it was action stations for all. Robard took the helm of the Sylph as Ffamran set off for the hangar, wherein like a babe in the womb, his pride and joy, his beloved Strahl waited for her captain. The rest of the squad that would be landing on the purvama oozed around their commander and ran off towards the remora docking bays like excitable children. All except one, that is.

'So how does it feel to have the captaincy of the Sylph?' Aeneas Shreevener, ace pilot of the Imperial Elite corps fell into stride beside his commander with an easy smirk. 'I mean if yer not careful those old tossers up at central command will stick you with a Magister-hood by default; only magister's are supposed to steward Imperial cruisers.'

Ffamran couldn't quite keep the frown from his face, 'Don't you have duties to perform; preferably ones that require you to be far away from me?'

'Yeah mate, I'm doing m'duty,' The red head grinned hugely at him. 'I'm yer co-pilot.' Laughing at the look on Ffamran's face Aeneas broke all degrees of professional protocol by slapping his commander on the back, 'What? Yer didn't think that crotchety old git Zargabaath would let yer go flying solo after last time? Bollocks to it mate we all thought yer were a goner for good that time.'

'Indeed?' Ffamran's lips curled up slightly at the edges. 'I thought our last rout went rather well personally. Imperial trade around Balfonheim waters has been much safer by all reports.'

'Well of course it has,' Aeneas looked as if he couldn't decide if Ffamran was playing with him or not. 'You blew up a purvama right over the heads of the last lot of pirates picking on vessels along the Phon straits. Gods, but if I hadn't been there I'd never have believed it. Only you, my friend, would think dropping a flipping floating island on a pirate armada was a reasonable thing to do.'

'Got rid of the blighters, didn't it?' On the one hand Ffamran could see that yes, what he had done, rigging a purvama with enough magicite to blast a hole the size of Archades out of the sky, and then manipulating the pirate rebels into forming an armada right underneath the blast site could be seen as a rather – drastic – solution to an annoying problem. On the other hand, if the army and the Judiciary hadn't wanted drastic action they shouldn't have given him the sodding commission, should they? Ffamran had yet to meet a problem that couldn't be resolved by the judicious use of a great deal of explosives. 'Not to mention the fact that those pirates were Rozzarian paid privateers.' He added in case the rumour got out that he had perpetrated such mass destruction simply for a lark. 'If we are to avoid a bloody pointless war with Rozzaria, this is how it will be done. We have to make sure the Empire appears untouchable.'

'Right mate,' Aeneas sounded a trifle sceptical, 'and we do that by blowing up pirates in Balfonheim?' It was hard to tell if Aeneas was being deliberately facetious or just unintentionally moronic, either way it was vexing in the extreme as far as Ffamran was concerned.

'No Aeneas,' Ffamran said levelly as he approached the berth of his beloved ship. 'We do it through fear. We do it by showing our enemies that as bad as they think it is living under Empire now, if they oppose us, it will be a thousand times worse.'

'So we wipe out the pirates?' Aeneas said nothing in response to the cool, implacable mask his friend and commander wore upon his face when he spoke so calmly of such things, but it occurred to him, not for the first time, that this was the reason he would never make Judge. He just wasn't that bloody heartless.

When Ffamran turned slightly at the threshold to the Strahl's hangar in the very belly of the Slyph, his smile was that of a wolf eager for the kill.

'Oh, I assure you, the pirates are just the start.'

******

_Royal Palace Rabanastre:_

'Vossler I like this not,' Basch Fon Ronsenberg was uneasy. Watching the burnished sun sliding below the trellises of the Rabanastre palace gardens, so that sun dappled shadows fell across the patio in cut-out stars, the former Knight of Landis, now sworn in service to King Raminas of Dalmasca, shifted his stance and brushed his thumb across the sword in its scabbard by his hip.

'It is statecraft Basch,' Sir Azelas Vossler, fellow knight and perhaps also Basch's friend, kept his eyes on their young charge as she walked the gardens with her betrothed. 'His Majesty King Loras cannot afford to give affront to Rozzaria by refusing an envoy.'

Basch pursed his lips, eyes also watching the Princess Ashelia and her soon-to-be husband Rasler walk arm in arm around the cloistered promenade as the sun turned the sky red as blood. 'And should Archadia send someone? Would Loras seem that envoy too?'

Basch knew he spoke out of turn. It was not his place to question the actions of a king, especially when that king was not his own, yet he was troubled. He liked it not that King Loras was actively consorting with Rozzaria. He knew from bitter experience that to let the wolves in the door was to invite them to rip out your throat. Basch had no doubt in his mind that the empire of Rozzaria was as much a wolf as Archadia; for all that she would approach in seeming peace.

'You are more troubled by this than I would have thought,' Vossler noted quietly. 'I admit that I do not like it much more than you. With the marriage of Ashelia to Prince Rasler Dalmasca aligns her fate with Nabradia to far greater degree than ever before. I wonder that Loras would make such overtures towards Rozzaria now, so soon before the wedding.'

Underneath a delicate marble archway, beside the bubbling fountain, Ashelia giggled girlishly (a sound she would never dream to make outside of the Prince's company) and ducked her head coyly as the Prince cupped her face for a kiss. Such antics, so pure in their innocence, would ordinarily have made Basch smile to see, but now his mood was too overburdened to find the joy in such sweetness. He could taste the ashes of encroaching on the dry desert air. He could see tragedies shadow creeping long over all their peace.

'The king is concerned.' He said in his way of saying much by saying very little.

Vossler nodded curtly, 'Raminas has ever been a wise man.' Unspoken was the contention held by both men, that Loras was not a wise man, and to be anything but wise in this time on uncertainty was a very dangerous thing indeed.

'I am reminded,' Basch spoke reluctantly, 'that before Landis fell she too once grasped the hand of friendship Empire offered.'

'That was Archadia,' Vossler demurred, but without much strength of conviction. 'The Empire to the east has ever been grasping; they are serpents all.'

Basch sighed and shook his head. 'It matters not I have found; greed is greed and war is war no matter geography or nationality. Tis worse I think now, for we are between the slathering maws of two hungry wolves; Landis was within sight of but one.'

On the other side of the garden courtyard the two betrothed once more began their slow promenade under the sunset shadowed arches; arm in arm and eyes only for each other. The Princess's smile was more radiant than the fullest moon on the darkest night. Basch sighed again and averted his gaze. Vossler did not, ever watchful like the hawk.

'Then we must remain vigilant friend.' He said staunchly as only a Knight sworn to die for his fealty could be. 'Should war come it will be our swords that may make the day – or lose it for us all.'

'Aye,' Basch averred in a gruff whisper but he could not help but to remember another homeland that had once depended upon his sword – a homeland he had abandoned to the jaws of empire. In the sight of young love's first blossoming Basch could not help but wonder, was cruel history about to repeat herself yet again?


	3. Act One: Dead Men Do Tell Tales

**Act One 704 O.V: Dead Men Do Tell Tales**

_Imperial City Archades: Evermore Solidor Summer Retreat_

From his window Vayne could look out upon the sculpted splendour of the summer gardens, following the gentle contours of the manicured lawns and topiary mazes with his eyes to the very banks of the Saraches River. The scent of fresh cut grass and warm sunlight tasted sweet on his tongue and the birds composed lively melodies for his pleasure from the languid swaying branches of the trees. It was, in short, a very fine day.

He heard the approach of footsteps from the other side of his bedroom door before the summary knock sounded. Turning regretfully from the window, Vayne called a greeting. 'Enter.'

'My lord, you summoned me?' The man who filled the doorway performed a flawless traditional bow that nevertheless only seemed to illustrate the man's impatience and conflicted nature. He was also dressed in full ceremonial armour, including helm. Vayne's lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. Outside of military engagement such attire appeared more than a trifle ridiculous.

'At ease Gabranth,' walking from the window he moved to the drinks cabinet in the corner, pulling the crystal stopper from a decanter of fine Bhujerban madhu. 'Will you take drink with me Gabranth?' Vayne did not wait for an answer as he poured some of the rich liquor into two prism cut shot glasses.

'I……am on duty, my lord.' Gabranth finally crossed the threshold of the room, but remained close to the door, awkward rather than imposing in his full garb.

'Your sobriety and dedication to protocol do you much credit, Gabranth.' Lifting one of the glasses towards his mouth, Vayne inhaled the heady, almost heated aroma of the potent spirit, hiding his smile behind the rim of the glass. 'Yet I am reminded that, due the office bestowed upon me by the Emperor, I am in fact your commander-in-chief, am I not?'

There was a discernable hesitation from the man behind the armour, '……yes, my lord. You are my commander.'

Vayne smiled. Gabranth was not a foolish man, but he was a simple one. It made it – difficult - not to play with the man, much as a couerl out in Tchita liked to play with its prey before devouring it. 'Well then, as your commander I insist you join me in a mid-morning constitutional.' The offered glass was a challenge poor Gabranth had no chance of meeting, let alone winning.

'I…..yes, my lord.' Knowing himself trapped, but pragmatic to a fault, Gabranth removed his helm and placed it carefully on a nearby side table before approaching Vayne to take the shot glass. The small crystal glass looked amusingly incongruous held awkwardly within the magister's gauntleted paw.

Sipping easily from his own glass Vayne walked back to the window, 'Tell me Gabranth, have you been summoned before my father, our beloved Emperor, recently?'

'……No my lord; the Emperor has not seen fit to summon me to his presence in the last sennight.'

'It is so? Interesting.' Outside the window and beyond the gardens a flat bottom barge meandered up stream along the muddy dark waters of the Saraches, headed no doubt, for the windmills and grain silos of the Tchita Uplands. 'You know I'm sure, that my father does not see fit to summon for me at all unless he sees no viable alternative?'

Behind his back Vayne heard the shifting of Gabranth's balance as the man gave in to an unusual expression of nervousness. His next words did surprise Vayne however. 'My Lord, what answer would you have of me?' The hint of impatience with the couerl and mouse games Vayne played was just audible in the youngest magister's growled utterance.

Turning back to his favourite hound Vayne waved away the ire, 'A fair comment Gabranth, I accept your censure.'

The magister twitched, 'I meant no disrespect, my lord.'

'Of course not,' Vayne set aside his empty shot glass, noting that Gabranth had yet to touch his own, 'no one in House Solidor could doubt your loyalty, Gabranth. You have proved a most – exemplary – vassal.'

Watching without seeming to watch at all, Vayne waited for the tell-tale pitching of the flesh around the other man's eyes, which would denote the barb hitting home. The Emperor, his father, did not understand why Vayne had insisted on sparing the life of this once proud knight and soldier of Landis, only to then shower him with every favour of Empire. Very few within both the Houses of the Gentry and the Judiciary had understood why Vayne should sponsor the rise of a prisoner of war to the great heights of Judge Magister, and those who did understand leashes and corruption by kindness, were those who would count themselves as Vayne's natural enemies in any respect and were thus hidebound to disapprove. All the same Vayne doubted there was any in Archadia alive today who could understand the artistry of what Vayne wrought upon the broken spirit of this man standing before him now. It was the work of a simple thug to kill one's enemy, but to make him love you? Ah, now that was victory to a far greater magnitude.

'I……thank you, my lord.' Stiffly Gabranth accepted more than just the misleading compliment; Gabranth understood that he was damned, even as he had been saved the fate Vayne had delivered onto his former countrymen. Alas, it was all poison and serpents within House Solidor.

'I have heard troubling rumours that my father's health fails him.' Vayne said, cutting right to the chase now he was sure his hound had been brought to heel. 'My entreaties to my father for an audience go unheeded.' Vayne smiled thinly. 'It would seem that there are some close to my father's side who advise him against me; especially now when my father shows no sign of returning to his former vigour and good health.'

'I would not know my lord,' Gabranth offered gruffly. 'It is no secret that the senate would oppose your succession to the seat of Empire, should it come to that. I do not believe that there are any in the Judiciary who would oppose you, however.'

'Do you not, Gabranth? Then I must correct your understanding. There are many among the judiciary and the military who would oppose me. I could recite their names to you, but it would serve no great purpose.'

'The magisterium stand with you, my lord.'

'And with them the Imperial Elites, and thusly the airforce,' Vayne agreed mildly, 'And thus should it come to pass I could do as the senate claims I was always destined to do, plunge our beloved Archadia into a civil war.' Vayne once more turned to face Gabranth. 'No Gabranth, I have no intention of doing such a thing. I am a son of Empire, I serve my homeland before all else. I will not see her fall to internal division – or external threat.'

'Rozzaria,' Gabranth growled, face creasing in consternation.

'Indeed,' Vayne plucked another crystal shot glass from the drinks cabinet and poured himself another glass of madhu. 'What news do you have from abroad? Do we know what that bastard Margrace wanted with King Loras?'

If Gabranth was troubled by his liege lord's sudden vehemence he made no sign of it. 'No, my lord. My sources say that the archduke remained in Nabradia for some three days, in which time he spent at least eight hours in private conference with King Loras.' Gabranth paused for a moment before adding in darker tones. 'I know that the archduke visited the fortress of Nalbina in the king's company.'

'The Midnight Shard,' tapping his fingers over the crystal glass Vayne did not otherwise react to this piece of very bad news. He walked back to the window where a bank of cloud was presently passing over the sun, throwing swift travelling shadow over the gardens. Vayne watched those shadows dance, the madhu's after-burn still redolent upon his tongue.

'If only Cid had not perished in Giruvegan, how different things would be now.'

Shaking his head to clear it Vayne downed the last of his shot and turned back to regard Gabranth coolly. 'Gabranth, go to my father, tell him what you have learned. Impress upon him the significance of the threat. He will not listen to me, for I am lost to him now, but he may still listen to you – or at least the intelligence you can produce. Rozzaria is moving against us and the Empire cannot stand idly by.'

******

_Purvama Drako: Imperial air territory Balfonheim-Ridorana airspace_

The purvama appeared deserted; the ghost wisps of burned out fires smouldered in the distance where the half-erect scaffold of a former building stood against the horizon like so many blackened matchsticks. The seven airships docked around the purvama had been found to be vandalised and otherwise scuppered by a person or persons unknown. The stench of magicite incendiaries and death hung heavy upon the unpleasantly still air. Judge Ffamran, surveying the scene with a mild expression of surprise, stood upon the docking pier beside his Strahl and crossed his arms over his chest thoughtfully.

'Hmm, well this is unexpected.'

'Unexpected? It's sodding carnage.' Aeneas, who never let a chance for hyperbole to go to waste, glanced around him like a slack-jawed fool. Ffamran rolled his eyes at him.

'Hardly; we have yet to find a single corpse,' a thought occurred to him and Ffamran wandered over to the edge of the pier where thin scraps of cloud scudded underneath the drop-off, and far below, the ocean churned. 'Hmm, though I should imagine the fish have been spoiled with some rather unusual offerings falling from the sky of late.'

'You seem very calm about this.' Aeneas remained by the gangway up to the Strahl, giving the impression of one ready to turn tail and flee back to the safety of the cockpit at any moment. Ffamran ignored him for the most part and unholstered his Arcturus from behind his back.

'And you seem like a man over given to fits of nerves,' he pointed out. 'Frankly I am rather pleased. In fact,' Ffamran added smirking as he loaded his gun, 'this is all quite convenient.' He nodded towards the burned out building ahead of them where the rest of the incursion unit ferreted amid the wreckage for anything interesting. 'It would appear that someone has arrived before us and considerately slaughtered or otherwise removed the pirates from this rock.' Ffamran pointed out drolly pulling loose a handkerchief from somewhere on his person so he could rub at a small mark on the barrel of his rifle. 'That's a good result in my book; saves us the bother of another rout, in any regards.'

Still it was curious; by all accounts this island was a slave-traders base of operation. Nasty buggers this lot had been too. They _had_ possessed, presuming they were all now deceased, a penchant for stealing women and children from the outlying regions of the Empire. Those (presumably) innocent citizens of Empire were then sold off to Rozzarian slave dealers at a discount. Apparently due to the constant war of attrition between the two empires of east and west, slaves from Archadian territories were considered objects of desirable status in Rozzaria. These pirates had made good Gil preying on the Islander folk. Ffamran felt his brow pucker somewhat remembering the young woman he and his regiment had found in Taliluva Island out in the deeps of Naldoa a week past. That woman was lucky; she had escaped the slavers, but not before the degenerates had raped her repeatedly, beat her horribly, and branded her like a cheap piece of meat. Ffamran had been rather looking forward to putting them to justice in the judiciary method, which, Ffamran would concede readily, had less to do with due process and much more to do with cold vengeance. He wondered who could have reached this purvama before him and beat him to it.

'In any respect,' he said aloud partly to Aeneas and partly in answer to his own thwarted bloodlust, 'I suppose proceeding with a modicum of caution could not hurt. Anyone who could do all this,' he waved a negligent hand towards the sundry destruction, 'is not someone I particularly relish tangling with.'

Setting off along the rickety boards of the pier Ffamran slung his rifle over his shoulder and sauntered off towards the rest of his regiment, he did not particularly care if Aeneas chose to follow or not.

*******

_Imperial air territory: Westernmost frontier_

The Imperial Dreadnaught Leviathan cut through the flawless cerulean sky like a knife parting water, only for the cut to heal immediately with the ship's passing. His honour Judge Magister Ghis, safely ensconced within his private quarters, settled in to enjoy a light lunch of quail and basted pheasant with buttered corn. He was feeling rather pleased with himself, all things considered. As he supped he mentally composed a letter in his thoughts to his new business associate.

_Your Grace, _ah but that grated somewhat, having to offer up such an honorific to a greasy Rozzarian bastard but alas, Reginald Ghis had had a life time of supplication to those unworthy of his deference. _I am pleased to inform you that news of your recent meeting with his majesty king Loras has indeed reached the Capital. I expect to receive new orders from that snake Vayne any day now. _Indeed, Vayne was nothing if not a demanding commander. Damned jumped up wet-eared boy. Kinslayer; would be usurper! Yes, Ghis may not like taking the orders of a Rozzarian, but if it meant freeing Archadia of the blasted Solidor line once and for all he would gladly lick the boots of any sodding Margrace princeling yet born. _No doubt there will be a greater military presence patrolling the borders, and the gate between the Salikawood and the Phon Coast will be closed, or guarded. All signs of paranoia so easy to twist into covert aggression on the part of Archadia. On that note, I do hope your negotiations with Loras are preceding a pace? What of the stone; is it as we thought? _

Alas it could all have been so different. The House of Ghis was not as venerated as that of the House of Zargabaath, nor as wealthy as some others either, but when Reginald had attained the rank of magister it had seemed as if his house had finally cemented their place in the Imperial hierarchy. Yet things had soured swiftly. Ghis had lost an entire regiment in combat against those barbarians in Landis during the war, then as if to add insult to injury rather than allowing Ghis the very great pleasure of taking the life of the commander who had defeated him in the field, bloody Vayne Solidor had not only spared the damned Landissian's life but made him magister! Gabranth – oh how Reginald hated him. After that things had never been the same. Ghis had kept his Magisterhood, but there were whispers, oh so many whispers, all saying that Ghis' days were numbered. Reginald knew, he just sodding knew, that Vayne had plans to give his helm to that smug git Bunansa as soon as the spoiled brat grew bored of playing soldier and decided he wanted a bit of political clout. It was always the same, that unholy trinity of Solidor, Zargabaath, Bunansa. No one else got so much as a look in, no matter how deserving they might be.

Slamming down his cutlery Ghis abruptly lost his appetite. Rising from the table he strode towards the bureau where he kept his papers. 'No longer,' Ghis breathed through his teeth. 'No longer will Archadia suffer under the Solidors; soon they will regret how they have treated me.'

Within a magickally sealed box in the top drawer of the bureau resided his ticket to all he so richly deserved. The lost diaries of the late Doctor Cidolfus Demen Bunansa, presumed dead these last four years, lost while on expedition to the ancient city of Giruvegan deep within the mist shrouded Fey Wood. Few even within the corridors of power in the capital had known what it was Cid had sought when he left on his fated expedition. In truth Ghis had not known anything of it until a year later when the former Draklor director had been declared dead and his louche and irreverent son made Lord Bunansa in his stead. It had been pure chance that it was Ghis – least of all the magisters – that had been ordered to investigate the last known whereabouts of the lost doctor. On the border of the Feywood and the dark gnarled shadow of Golmore Jungle Reginald had found these papers. To this day he was not sure why he had chosen to keep them rather than handing them over, but it did not truly matter. All that mattered was that he had them, and Rozzaria wanted them.

'Deifacted nethicite,' stroking fingers reverently over the creased and weatherworn pages of the journal Ghis saw an inner vista of wealth and prosperity for he and his House, fuelled by this strange and near mythical stone – this deifacted nethicite.

******

_Drako Purvama:_

'Sir – Commander, sir!' Syln skidded up over a rough mound of fallen masonry and other detritus within the main husk of the half-collapsed building.

'Careful man, if you break your neck I'll not carry you out of here.' Ffamran rose to his feet from where he had crouched to inspect the wreckage. Unless he was very much mistaken (which he doubted he was) this entire building had been brought down with fire magicite grenades. How very – quaint!

'Yes sir, sorry sir.' Syln smacked himself in the brow in another overly zealous salute. Ffamran sighed and hoped the man would get to the point of whatever it was he had come haring over here to say. Command was all well and good, and certainly Ffamran enjoyed the parts that involved delegating unloved tasks to overeager underlings well enough, but he really could have done without all the bloody idiot fawning. For the gods own sake, he was not a magister, surely these men realised that he had no say in regards their professional development? Thanks to the delightful idiosyncrasies of Imperial military protocol Ffamran could get them all killed through incompetent command but he could not get them pay rises. Of course if he had the power to set wages he would not reward the crawlers. He detested sycophants. Ffamran had been a surly, ungrateful bastard in his days as an unranked soldier and as far as he was concerned that was the only sensible way to be when one's livelihood involved ending the lives of others. Admittedly Ffamran had never wanted to be a military man in the first place, and his rise amid the ranks had more or less been assured by virtue of his lineage – but all this was beside the point!

As if realising that his commander's attention was in danger of flittering away completely from the matter at hand, Syln cleared his throat as deferentially as he could. 'Sir? We found a live one, sir.'

Instantly alert now Ffamran perked up notably, 'Indeed; why didn't you say so?' He quirked an eyebrow at the stammering hoplite. 'Enough! Just show me where the bugger is.'

'Ah – yes sir; this way sir!' Syln turned on his heels so fast he nearly fell face first into a pile of still smouldering timbers. Ffamran's reflexes had always been sharp, and he grabbed the man by the back of his flight leathers (primarily an air brigade Ffamran's regiment were not required to wear full plate armour – this was as well as Ffamran flatly _refused_ to wear armour in any regard).

'One foot in front of the other,' Ffamran drawled as he set the new recruit back on his feet. 'And do try not to embarrass yourself any further, hmm?' Exchanging a tired look with Aeneas Ffamran let the stupid lad go haring off again and made his much more sedate (and careful) way over the piles of debris.

'Whoever done this really done a number on this place,' Aeneas felt the need to comment, somewhat inanely, as they scrambled over wreckage towards a small knot of soldiers.

'Quite,' Ffamran bit out, 'By the way, Aeneas, did you ever actually attend schooling? I'm fairly sure there are forms of invertebrate Seaslugs whose command of correct grammar is far superior to your own.'

Aeneas was unperturbed, 'Mate the Imperial army ain't paying me to talk pretty.'

'More's the pity.' Ffamran muttered under his breath. Aeneas may have chosen to respond all the same with some form of low-brow witticism but it was at this point that Ffamran gained his first look at the survivor. He stopped himself wincing at the last instant.

'Hmm, are we sure this bloke's a _survivor_?'

The man lying half slumped against the partially standing wall of the building amid a litter of uncomfortably sharp glass shards and twisted metal, had seen better days. His hands were curled into claws clasping at the gaping fissures rent across his stomach and from the smell it was clear his innards had ruptured. If the man was not dead, he soon would be. Ffamran stepped over and lightly nudged the man's leg with his booted foot. The almost-corpse moaned gutturally and his pain bright eyes opened to agonised slits. He said something in a strangely sibilant tongue that was most likely one of many dialectic strains of Rozzarian.

'What was that?' Ffamran asked impatiently.

'He asked for mercy, sir.' Sergeant Markeele translated promptly. 'He's been harping on like that for a while.'

'Mercy?' Arching both brows Ffamran looked down on the man sceptically. 'Not ruddy likely. Ask him who eviscerated him, would you? I have better things to do than stand here in this filth.'

A quick exchange took place between the bilingual Markeele and the dying man. Ffamran shifted his weight impatiently and examined the lay of his leather sleeve with a critical eye. He would need to get these leathers laundered sharpish or the stench of burned magicite would seep permanently into them.

'Well?' He asked when the conversation seemed to tail off into pained groans on the part of the Rozzarian. Markeele, a solid man and a sturdy soldier by all accounts suddenly appeared somewhat uncomfortable. Ffamran peered at him keenly, 'What is it man? Clearly he told you something. For a soon to be deceased slaver he appeared quite loquacious.'

Markeele cleared his throat. 'He……uh…….he said it was a Viera sir.'

Ffamran blinked, 'A Viera killed all these slavers and blew up this building?'

Markeele nodded awkwardly, 'Yes sir, so he said, sir. He said she was a slave, or at least they thought she was – until she went berserk and started killing them all, that is.'

'Well obviously,' Ffamran couldn't help but remark. 'Killing one's masters is hardly very slavish behaviour is it now?' He paused thoughtfully. 'Though if this sort of thing takes off it could be quite handy; Rozzaria has a lot of slaves, if they all take it into their heads to messily slaughter their oppressors we might never need to go to war.'

'Wait,' Aeneas broke into the conversation at that juncture. He turned to Markeele almost accusingly. 'Are you telling us that a _Viera_ did all this? Sliced this bloke up like so much bunting paper and blew the rest of the buggers off the map?'

'_I'm _not saying anything!' Markeele exclaimed. 'I'm just the translator.'

'Yeah, but mate – a _Viera_! We're talking about the same Viera right? With the ears and the…..' words failed Aeneas at this point and he resorted to moving his hands through the air to illustrate a rather willowy, yet highly feminine, curved form.

'I believe there is only the one breed of Viera, yes.' Ffamran decided to cut this conversation dead before it could descend to further puerile depths. 'Regardless of whether this Viera has ears or is particularly pleasing to the eye,' he drawled narrowing his eyes at Aeneas who could be guaranteed to lower the tone of any situation, 'I want to find her. In fact, I'm set on it. We are going to find this Viera.'

'Why?' Aeneas asked, proving that the Imperial army hadn't hired him for his intellect _or_ his eloquence.

Ffamran arched his brows laconically, 'Beyond the fact that she has just saved me the bother of disposing of this nest of slavers, and at the very least I wish to thank her in person for her civic mindedness?' Ffamran shrugged casually, hefting his Arcturus in his hands and flicking the safety off the trigger hammer. 'She may be in possession of information that could be of use to the Empire. She's also a wanton killer and it's always nice to know how many of those we might have running around the far reaches of Empire at any given time.'

It was at this point that the still not quite dead Rozzarian stirred, reaching out with a blood and gore smeared hand to grasp Ffamran's ankle. He babbled something in his strange tongue, which even to Ffamran's Archadian ear sounded particularly pitiful.

'Yes,' he snapped shaking the man off him. 'I was just getting to you.' Briefly frowning down at his bloodied boot irritably Ffamran aimed his rifle at the pleading man's head. 'Right then, as an agent of Empire and a servant of her justice I Ffamran Mid Bunansa hereby execute you for crimes against the Empire.'

The sobbing Rozzarian opened his mouth on one more impassioned plea – and then his head exploded messily against the broken down wall, the single rifle shot ending his life with perfunctory lack of compassion.


End file.
